A figure materialized. Rory.
“There’s only the one,” he whispered. “He passed by our hiding spot and then doubled back. I don’t know if he heard us or smelled the horses.”
“Where there’s one, there’s more,” Bolt said.
But Rory shook his head. “Not anywhere close. I would have seen them from the top of the hill.” He paused. “It’s not one of the men we saw before.”
“Willet Dura!”
I flinched. “That’s probably not a lucky guess.”
“Willet Dura,” the man’s voice called again. “I know you’re there and your scout has already confirmed I’m alone. Will you parley? You may bring your guards.”
“If you move,” Bolt said. “I’ll knock you unconscious.”
I looked at Rory. “Is it Cesla?”
“No,” he said. “This fellow is short and probably in his thirties. If he wasn’t wearing a uniform, I’d spot him for a tanner or some such.”
“Willet Dura,” the voice called again. “Dawn approaches and our opportunity for conversation is short. Will you waste it?”
I looked at Bolt.
“You know this has to be a trap,” he said.
I nodded. Already the sky showed hints of blue and all but the brightest stars had winked out. “Yes, but what kind?” I looked at Rory. “You’re sure he’s alone.”
He nodded. “And unarmed as far as I can tell.”
Bolt let loose with an impressive string of curses.
“You never told me you had a talent for language,” I said.
“I should have stayed in Arinwold,” he said. “I liked it there. Quiet. Mostly sheep. No fool-headed reeves to watch over.” He looked at Rory. “You’re coming. If this fellow even blinks wrong, kill him.”
“Not you,” I said to Gael. “If anything goes wrong, you have to get Mirren and the queens to Treflow.”
She nodded, but her eyes were slits. “We’re going to talk later, and I can guarantee you’re not going to enjoy it.”
I walked out of the thicket with Bolt and Rory. In the predawn morning, I saw a solitary figure in Owmead’s colors, standing where the hills flattened out to level ground. A bird cried once, a questioning call that went unanswered.
“How close do we have to be for you to guarantee a kill?” Bolt asked Rory.
“From ten paces in, I won’t miss.”
We stopped at eight.
“Greetings, Lord Dura,” the voice said. “I’ve come to offer you terms of surrender.”
“Why should I accept anything but unconditional surrender from you?” I asked.
The man smirked. It might have been a trick of the light or its absence, but it seemed an intelligence old beyond imagining glittered in his eyes. “Glib to the last,” he said. “Gabbanal Ador, Ealdor’s brother, thought to show me the back of his hand when I surrounded his forces and called for his surrender. Time has no meaning for us, but I took enough of it to teach him all the variations of pain before I let him die.”
Cold spread through my middle, as if I’d swallowed a lump of ice. “But you were defeated yourself, Atol. Were you not?”
The man laughed. “Do you think to cow me with Ealdor’s knowledge? I have given myself a name that no one knows.” He cocked his head. “You really don’t understand. Allow me to enlighten you. Your battle against me is hopeless, Lord Dura. In fact, each day—”
“How so, infinite one?” I mocked. I didn’t feel overly inclined to hear about the hopelessness of my situation.
A spasm of irritation twisted the man’s expression. “My power grows with each passing day, Lord Dura. You will not reach Treflow alive. The greatest human to live was still far less than the least of the Fayit, and I am far more than Ealdor and his kind ever thought of being. The stroke of their vengeance has twisted in—”
“It usually does,” I broke in. “You really do go on, don’t you.” I drawled. “Oh well, there is no gift of conversation.”
“You worm!” the man said. “You think to bandy words with me? I will teach you—”
“Yes, yes, yes,” I waved my hand as if his anger was nothing more than smoke on the wind. “You were going to tell me the terms of my surrender before you got distracted with your own magnificence.”
“Interrupt me again at your peril, Lord Dura,” he said. “I can use you, but I don’t need you.”
I smiled. “The terms, exalted one.”
“You will deliver the kings and queens of the north into my hands at Treflow.”
I stared at him, working to understand his request. “Your solitude has driven you mad, Atol. Instead of asking you why I would do such a thing, I think I’d rather know why you want them.”
The man Atol inhabited shrugged, glancing at the sky. “This time grows short, but as a token of my goodwill, I will tell you. There is, after all, nothing you can do with the knowledge. The kings and queens are the last holders of pure gifts. Upon my freedom, I will use them to re-create the race of the Fayit.”
“What about the talents and temperaments?” I asked. “Were you not endowed with all?”
He smiled. “The gifts, Lord Dura, are what I require, and though you did not ask why you would do such a thing, I will tell you. It is within my power to ensure Lady Gael’s life is as long as yours.”
I let my face go slack and filled my eyes with hunger, waiting until the smallest glimmer of hope showed in his eyes. Then I laughed. “So wise and such a fool,” I said, “to tempt me with a gift that would kill her love for me.”
The sky on the eastern horizon showed a hint of orange. Despite our relative safety, I hungered for dawn.
The soldier coiled and launched himself, coming for me with his arms outstretched, his hands curled into claws that strained for my throat.
Beside me, Rory blurred into motion as Bolt jumped to meet the attack in midair. Spinning and twisting, he hit the soldier with his feet, knocking him to the side, but the man was already dead. One of Rory’s daggers had
